A Portrait of MLK Days

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Growing up, my family usually participated in the MLK Day marade that marched – or rather, walked at a leisurely pace – through Downtown Denver. The first year I remember going, my dad pulled me in our little red wagon. Then there was the year we saw and briefly talked to Cleo Parker Robinson. And the year we met our neighbors there. The weather (because this is Colorado after all), was always different. It was windy or hot or chilly or cold with a side of hot chocolate. But two things remained the same for over the years: we went to Chipotle afterwards and… it didn’t mean much to me. I had learned about Rosa Parks, Ruby Bridges, Martin Luther King, Jr. himself, and what they stood for, but I saw the day and the marade as an excuse for no school and a long walk with hundreds of strangers.

In college, even though I had long since discovered racism, both historical and present, MLK Day was admittedly the day before my second semester and quite simply, a day of mental and physical preparation.

Today, I worked. I listened in as a staff member read about MLK to some residents while they ate cake and occasionally interjected with facts or questions. And I returned to listening to and observing the ones I was there to serve. I had learned that all of these civil rights leaders and legends were human and not infallible, but these people I interacted with, even so, more real and equally as impacted by the abuses, neglects, and hatred of the world as the people I learned about in history books.

Listening to a resident describe how he was mistreated by medical professionals and seeing how another resident was abused by family and the world around her, I truly see what racism, sexism, and stigma sound and look like. In some ways, I think working today has been the best experience I’ve ever had of MLK Day. It’s made me feel a little helpless, I have to admit, but mostly, it’s given me another reminder of why I want to be a social worker. Maybe one day instead of feeling helpless, I’ll feel help-ful.

 

Stories

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The cars whizz by under our feet as we cross, like a slow caravan, the bridge over the highway. The sides of the bridge are adorned with metal circles engraved with quotes about walking or biking. For instance, “I love long walks, especially when taken by ones who annoy me (unknown)” and “Don’t walk in front of me — I may not follow; don’t walk behind — I may not lead; walk beside me and just be my friend (Albert Camus).”

We pause.

My niece, a year old, dances out of her stroller and gazes down at the cars. My grandma, leaning to one side in her wheelchair, gazes at the ground, at the steel supports of the bridge, at the cars, or perhaps at images of the past.  I take my eyes off my two companions and focus on the vehicles and I wonder: what are their inhabitants thinking? Is there an arguing couple? A happy, dancing-to-the-music family? When they pass under this bridge, are they looking at the structure? Or do they see us and wonder what we too are thinking?  Do they see us at all?

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been creating stories about people in my head. As I’ve grown up, these stories have also grown up. Some I’ve written about and some I plan to in the future. And some I’ve forgotten. Through my experiences of working with elderly and disabled clients, talking to those on the helpline, and my current internship at a nursing home, I’ve discovered simultaneously that real life can inform and better my stories more than simply my imagination and that human beings are more inspiring and grittier than any story can properly convey. Which is why I am a writer and why I am pursuing my Masters in Social Work.

With this discovery, I also have become aware of something called self-care. Self-care seems to be a “trendy” conversation piece right now, but unlike many trendy topics, it is of the upmost importance. Because I as an aspiring social worker, as well as anyone in any kind of helping position or anyone who hears/witnesses humans struggling constantly, need to take care of myself. I take care of myself in a series of little moments, like the one on the bridge with my niece and my grandma and the one I’m taking right now to write this post. Every once in a while, these moments will lead to stories that will be told in one way or another. But I’m finding, increasingly, that sometimes the best way to take care of myself, the best little moment to have or to share

is a pause.

conversing in the dark

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“Remember, darkness does not always equate to evil, just as light does not always bring good.”- P.C. Cast

My relationship with darkness is complicated. Growing up, I was terrified of it and how trees in particular loomed dangerously out of it, poised for attack. But even then, when I got upset or overstimulated, I would shut myself in the windowless bathroom and turn off the lights.

Now in my twenties, I am more comfortable with the dark. I cannot sleep with even the smallest light and those shapes that loomed no longer frighten me quite as much, but even so, I know that there is danger in the dark, mostly in the form of humans, so I tend to stick to lighted places. And still, I take comfort in a windowless bathroom with the lights switched off.

Last night, I took comfort once again in the dark. But this time, it was the living room and my parents were with me. We talked about being helpless in the face of Trump, his thoughtless, often destructive actions, and his supporters and advisors who enable him. We talked about helping out as much as we can and how it doesn’t seem like enough. We talked about staying cognizant of current issues and continuing to live our lives.

While my parents and I were literally sitting in the dark, we were trying to stay enlightened, something that it is not always easy when the media does not always show every side and when the U.S. media in particular does not always broadcast international news.

I think maybe the most important thing to do in this time is to consume knowledge. Knowledge fights ignorance. Knowledge sets dark and light from each other. But don’t forget critical thinking. Critical thinking not only sets dark and light from each other, but examines what is really dark and light, what is good and evil.

To help fight ignorance, especially about other countries and cultures, I recommend listening to the new NPR podcast, Rough Translation, which brings a topic from the U.S. and then examines how that topic is discussed and viewed in a different country. For example, one episode discusses racism in Brazil and another, fake news in Ukraine.

 

In Solitude, Hope with Charlottesville

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Growing up, little time in school was devoted to the issue of racism. Sure, we learned about the civil rights movement, Martin Luther King, Jr and Rosa Parks. But modern racism was not touched upon. I myself was exposed to a fair amount of diversity and no one I knew was such an outright racist that me, an oblivious kid, noticed.  The attitude was: the civil rights era has ended and things are better.

Which is admittedly true to a certain extent. I am quite aware that my interracial relationship would have been illegal not so long ago and very grateful for the progress that the country has made.

But then… Saturday happens and one peaceful protestor is killed and more are injured at a white nationalist rally and that progress seems to have been for nothing. I wish I was surprised by what happened. But the last few months have seen a president supported by the KKK, neo-nazi rallies, and undisguised hate speeches. The violence this weekend was inevitable.

With such darkness and hate, its hard to hope. But I think it is possible. Throughout my facebook feed, I have seen messages of solidarity for Charlottesville, I have seen the inspiring reactions from President Obama and celebrities, I have read and heard sermons about being a neighbor, and I saw how many cities (including Harrisburg and Colorado Springs) have organized “Unite with Charlottesville” events. I look up to Black Lives Matter and others who protest. I also look at my Sycamore House Community, who are now all in different states now, but are all dedicated in their own ways to seeing and standing up to racism.

 

Ruminations on a Wednesday Evening

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The combined fans in my room drone on consistently, the sound drifting over to me and playing with the edges of my ponytail. Contacts sitting by my bed in their solution, my eyes glance at the paper in focus and then blindly at the shapes whizzing past my window. I know that they are cars and I know there is water glimmering and reflecting the lights of the city. I know there are trees and I know there are stairs of stone, some steps crumbling, that lead into the river. There is probably a groundhog family nestled in their hole, surrounded by leaves cascading down the hillside. There is probably a man laying under a bridge, grateful it isn’t raining. Maybe in the morning, he will walk into the city, his face toughened by the sun, his beard long, his eyes shining like the stars. This man may walk into the city, breaking bread at a community meal, saying hello to the regulars or staying silent. This man may walk into the city, wandering until he finds a place to stay for the night, be it shelter or sidewalk. This man may be given a small card with a light blue logo and 3 numbers. If so, this man may find a payphone or use his cell phone to dial those 3 numbers. A woman may pick up and say “PA211. May I have your zip code please.” And he may say that he doesn’t have a zip code, that he’s homeless, but he’s in the city. And she will try to the best of her abilities to give him a number or two that will listen to him and give him shelter.

That woman, who he might have said thank you and have a blessed day to, will not know the rest of his story, but will turn around perhaps with a smile, perhaps with a furrowed brow, her mind on the man who called when she hears a soft knock on the door and I will come in, ready to relieve her and listen to the people with stars in their eyes and the moon on their cheek.

2-1-1 is a national number that anyone  can call if they need help paying rent, utilities, prescriptions or need a referral for shelter, food pantries, community meals, clothing banks, lawyers, mental health services, and more. The 2-1-1 call center that I work at also provides emotional listening support (not all of them do) for anyone who needs to talk. Our listening service is non-judgmental, confidential, anonymous, and 24/7. Just dial 1-800-932-4616.

we’re chained together forever

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Last week, my housemates and I sat in around our living room, writing on different colored strips of paper. Periodically, we would glance at a key in the center of our circle detailing what we should write:

On the yellow: Where we’ve seen joy this year.

On the blue: Where we’ve seen God.

On the purple: What we’ve learned this year that we’ll take into next year.

On the white: What we will do to continue on in service.

After writing, we linked the papers together, sharing our written thoughts as we folded and taped, folded and taped. After all 24 links were in the chain, one of my housemates said, “Now we’re all chained together.”

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 Lately, I’ve been wondering what our relationships will be like in the years coming. Except for two of my housemates, we will all be in different states instead of rooms only a few steps or flight of stairs away. And except for a wedding in a few months, we don’t have planned meetings in the future. While I have questions, I don’t have any doubts that we will be connected together for a long time. For me, the proof is in what is written in that chain.

I wrote, among other things, that I saw joy and God in each Sycamorean and every one around me. Everyone else’s answers varied, but one thing that they had in common were people because people often have the greatest impact. Some of us wrote that we had gained newfound knowledge of ourselves. Some of us wrote specific acts of service that we will continue to do and some others were more vague. I, for one, will try to be more involved with social justice in whatever community I am. Our answers were all different, but they all had something in common: They were all influenced by each other, further proving that…

“There are some things you can’t share without ending up liking each other, and knocking out a twelve-foot mountain troll is one of them”(Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, J.K. Rowling).

Or rather, there are some things you can’t share without being chained together forever, and being in the Sycamore House together for a year is one of them.

Preparations

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“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” -Jeremiah 29:11

This last weekend, I went to Colorado for a family event. The day before the event, we cooked and baked for half the day. I myself made four pies.

It was busy, but familiar. Growing up, my family almost always spent a full day of preparation before a gathering, whether it be Christmas dinner, Thanksgiving, a bridal shower, or funeral. There is always a lot of labor that goes into a meal that will be devoured in a few minutes with considerably less effort, but that has never bothered me. Maybe food’s impermanence is easier to grasp than our own.

Much of this year had to do with dealing with the present, but starting in March, suddenly it became all about planning. My housemates and I all started looking at our options for the next year or so, applying to jobs and schools. As our year of service with Sycamore House starts to close, I feel like I’m in the kitchen again, preparing for whatever’s ahead of me. Except I am not in the kitchen. It is not entirely comfortable or familiar and what I’m cooking won’t be devoured in one evening, but rather years.

I’ve been reflecting a lot on the beginning of the year as it compares to now. I have grown a lot. I have learned more about myself (so much that it seemed for a while that I was discovering something new every day) and I learned more about the state of Pennsylvania than I ever thought I would. I have grown closer to my housemates; they feel like family instead of people I simply share a house with.

While in Colorado, I visited some good friends and my college town. Two important things happened there: 1. I decided that I want to eventually move back there. 2. I saw a double rainbow.

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In the story of Noah and the Ark, we are taught that God made a rainbow appear in the sky after the flood as a promise to us that he would not try to destroy our world again. I was not thinking of this story when I saw the rainbows, but rather I was awestruck of their beauty. I was grateful that I had come back to Colorado even for a short time. And I was grateful that I got to share it with my friends.  And most of all, I was unconcerned, for at least that moment, of my future.

Independence

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1.

The first time I touched a moth, I shuddered. I discovered it when I crawled out of bed one morning. It was laying, motionless, presumably dead, where my right leg used to be. How long had it slept with me? Had I rolled over it and killed it? How the heck am I getting rid of it? A folded tissue answered my last question, but my revulsion remained.

The second time I touched a moth, I was amazed. Like the first time, it was purely accidental. It flew into my hand and instantly dropped into the car’s cup holder beside me. The collision site was shimmering with the moth’s wing dust, the eyeshadow like dust that gave it flight. Flight, which gave it independence and means to fend for itself. Flight, which it could not live without.

2.

She struggles with the words to describe what she is feeling. “You like being more independent,” I paraphrase what I’ve heard so far. Her breath clouds the phone for a second. “Yes.. that was the word I was looking for. Independent.”

3.

“I really admire your relationship,” my friend says, her long fingers playing with her coffee cup. “You don’t have to be together all the time. You’re independent.”

4.

I loved going to children’s chapel, which took place during the adult’s church service (boring to a five year old). When my brother was sent to get me, I would refuse to hold his hand because I could walk by myself.

5.

In the first grade, my class learned about butterflies. I was obsessed with the word, “chrysalis” for weeks, especially as we watched tiny cocoons in mason jars. I wondered what it was like inside. Was it warm, like when I was wrapped in my parent’s arms? Or was it more like a sleeping bag? Constricting, but oddly comforting? Or is it pure sleep with shadowy dreams of its caterpillar days?

When my Painted Lady butterfly broke out of its chrysalis, it fluttered quietly, discovering it now had wings. And during a warm, spring day we let them go, watching them disappear in sunlight.

moments from 5/12/17

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moment 1: I wake at 8:00. The sky outside my window is grey. The tree is startlingly green. The building across the way needs a new roof.

moment 2: I introduce a housemate to the Peter, Paul, and Mary, musicians of my childhood.

moment 3. “Be swift to love.”

moment 4: A housemate asks me what I’m thinking. My thoughts, seemingly irritated by the question, fly away.

moment 5: I decided between a green and tan charger with the same capabilities. Why is one more expensive than the other?

moment 6: The water flows over my fingers, baptizing a flap of dead skin, as I wash the dishes.

moment 7: Nicki Minaj.

moment 8. Why did I stop to look at the books? Furthermore, why did I not listen to myself when I told me, “Do not get any.”

moment 9: … I need to gather crayons.

Tikkun Olam

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Last week, I asked one of the volunteers at my work, CONTACT Helpline, about why she volunteers with us. She replied, “ It’s all part of “tikkun olam”, the Jewish concept of “repairing the world”.  Each of us has a role in completing and repairing the world, and this is something that I can do. . . I feel very fulfilled, like I have made a little positive difference in some lives, each time I work.”

“Tikkun olam,” like many words and phrases has changed meanings over time. Originally, the term appeared in the Mishnah, classical rabbinical teachings compiled in the 3rd century. It then was used in reference court proceedings. Modern Jews now use it more as a call to action, as a call to social justice.

Does the world need repairing? Maybe before I should address that question, I should ask: Is the world broken? Without thinking deeper, I would say, yes.  Each battle, each war, each schism, each unresolved dispute, however big or small, has helped rent the world apart a little each time. But… was the world ever whole? If a whole world means unification, I don’t know if the world has ever been truly whole. But can it? It seems impossible, but think it can.

So.. does the world need repairing? Yes, but we can’t return it to what it used to be. Instead, we can unite against the simplest and most complex challenges that every country faces like poverty, racial and class biases, food shortage. The UN and other well known (and not well known) organizations are doing their part. Some of us do it by volunteering on a helpline, some of us do it (or plan to do it, in my case) by working with the elderly, some are philanthropists, some of us protest against injustice. And  some people don’t know what their part is quite yet.

I almost wrote, “I don’t know if the world can be ever unified.” Then I remembered a small moment from the Easter Vigil service I went to at a small, unfamiliar church in New York. We had just lit our candles and were walking back into the church and the precocious wind blew my candle out. Without having been asked, a woman shared her energetic flame with mine. And going forward, I shared the flame again with another whose candle blew out. It was a tiny moment, but a beautiful one. A tiny moment with no politics, no judgment, no right or wrong. Just a moment. But one, if magnified a hundred times could fill the cracks we have made throughout the earth.